The Hollow Kingdom of Big Macintosh

Exhibit D

Big Macintosh stands still as rigor mortis. Rarity drapes black polyester over his shoulters. He is not comfortable because he is out of his element and polyester feels itchy, especially over his neck where his heavy, harness normally hangs.

"You look a lot thinner without it on," Rarity remarked when he'd taken it off. "I keep forgetting that."

"Is it a problem?"

"No, darling, not at all." There is no shortage of small talk between the two, but Rarity's concentration demands silence. She is an artist, and artists must focus on their work. Big Macintosh simply works, a technique that suits him. For the moment, he must focus at the task at hoof as well. Being here with an old friend brings back memories. His idle mind drifts into reminiscence.

"Do you still see the ghosts?" Rarity and Big Macintosh were almost adults when she finally brought up the subject of ghosts again.

"I don't see ghosts."

"That's too bad," she said. "I wanted to know what one looked like."

"Ghosts are made up of geometric shapes. They have candle flames for eyes and when they speak it's just frozen vapors falling out of their mouths. That is why it gets cold when they're around." Rarity did not say anything, but she just nodded at him. He understood it was his cue to go on. "They can't sleep and they won't leave their old homes because they believe they are locked inside. They remain there as angry prisoners until the living vacate the house or they come to sympathize with their captors, sublimating into ectoplasmic steam as they finally move on. I don't think they ever realize they are dead or that they have died or that there is some difference between what they are and what everypony else is."

"Wow."

"Eeyup."

"I've never heard you speak so much all at once." Big Macintosh found himself labeled as 'interesting'. The previously strange mare talked to him more and more often, each time become more brazen with her questions. They were all designed to dredge his most profound thoughts from the murky chasms of his mind.

"How does time go by? Why is the sensation of sight so seamless? When a pony dies in their sleep, do they feel it? What is it like on the inside of a star? Is it possible we all sense the world differently, like in ways another pony wouldn't be able to comprehend, but since we are all existing in the same world we are able to communicate perfectly through it as a medium? Does any of this make sense to you?"

The answers were long and got longer. He'd never thought about these conundrums, but since she presented them he suddenly found insight. He never realized how intelligent he was, or rather he never realized he was so capable of intelligence. If not intelligence, he had creativity. Even if the answers weren't true, at least he had answers. Rarity liked them.

The first time they had sex, they did it on his bed. White and red mingled on the sheets. He tried to say something profound, like how it was just like how they'd mingled, red and white. Rarity pointed out that not only were the fluids not only technically and actually them mingling, but fluids from two ponies coming together was far too literal of an analogy for sex.

"Too literal?" Big Macintosh hadn't followed. His post-coitus mindset and heavy panting still tried to process the problem.

"Yes, and I don't like it," Rarity said. She was just as winded, so she took a few deep breaths through her nose to slow down her breathing. "I don't like objectifying sex. I don't want it to be an exchange of fluids, even if it is."

"Well then, you can decide what it is," Big Macintosh said. "You can define sex. You can decide who has sex and why."

"Sex is something we do together because we want to share intimacy with somepony we care for." They continued to do that until they had only the energy to sleep left. That definition never changed, so neither did sex. He penetrated her, she swallowed him, and they achieved what they wanted. They never just exchanged fluids.

They never defined much else. There were no more questions and therefore no more creative insights. Big Macintosh realized he'd stare at the ground when they walked in the orchard while she stared right ahead. They only ever looked at each other from over her shoulder. He could pretend he didn't mean to do wrong and that she meant the same, but he didn't know what she was thinking. He didn't know anything until it all dropped off the edge of the world like a boatload of sorely disappointed explorers.

"Who?" Applejack just stared blankly at Macintosh as he inquired where Rarity was. "I didn't even know you had a special somepony."

"I don't," he told himself. Nothing ever happened and he'd been at the farm this whole time. He'd forgotten he could even hallucinate at all.

"Lean up; you're slouching a little."

Macintosh does what Rarity told him. He stands up tall while she wraps a gold cord around his neck.

"What's this for?" he asks.

"I got an offer from a store in Canterlot to do a line of suits. It'll be a lot of work, but I think I stand to make some money off of it." An image of Aquarius pouring water onto the earth to mingle with the dirt drifts through Big Macintosh's mind.

"Eeyup."